Secrets


Tactile echoes ripple secrets of an abominable past. Bloodstained whispers suffocate beyond hideous black breath. Muffled screams drip down walls of her cadaverous boudoir. The sound is deafening even to frolicsome beasts of the macabre. One hand extends to help you climb through mangled secrets marinated in blood. The other clenches a dripping hippocampus of an axed cranium, now only but a silent carcass.

She has been waiting in a brand new dress, of the prettiest light blue. A crimson enigma waits beyond the grisly door if you dare to open it. Reality will be hazed and will no longer exist. The sense known as the sixth awakens hallows of unfinished death. Only those born with a veil can see the hatched silhouettes in the silver moonlight, can hear the crackling of skull cavity split to precision, can see mouthful-sized pieces of brains splattered adding relief to the walls like a Van Gogh, can feel the viscous texture of a blackened atmosphere, can smell the noxious stench of fresh-baked decay, and can taste the vibrations of butchered screams bathed in bloody innocence. The children can still be seen playing jump rope as they sing:

They say Lizbeth took an axe
and gave her mother nineteen whacks
and when she saw what she had done,
she gave her father twelve minus one
Stepmother hated her new blue dress
She loved her father so he got less
Beware of 92 Second Street
She will chop you up when you sleep